


Looking for the Rain to Fall

by Aedemiel



Series: The Fog at the Edge of the World [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Depression, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22758208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aedemiel/pseuds/Aedemiel
Summary: Crowley was frantic. Aziraphale had literally vanished in front of his eyes, denying Crowley's long-suppressed declaration of love. His phone buzzed in his pocket but he ignored it. Thrusting his hands into his hair and tugging on it, he screamed. Aziraphale couldn't be gone. Crowley couldn't contemplate a world without him. His phone rang again and he answered it with a snarl."Crowley, what's happened?" Anathema demanded. How she had known something had happened he wasn’t sure, since he genuinely didn’t believe she was spying on them."I… I don't know…" Crowley's voice cracked. "He was here… and I… but he didn't… and then…" I can’t do this, I can’t. He’s gone. I’ve lost him. Nononononono.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Fog at the Edge of the World [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636216
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	Looking for the Rain to Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to The Long Slow Goodbye.
> 
> I've added it to the tags but I'm adding it here too. This work is not comfortable and may be triggering for anyone struggling with depression, suicidal ideation, PTSD or other mental health conditions. Please don't read this if you think you might be triggered by it.
> 
> If you need help, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline Call 1-800-273-8255 They're available all day, every day. Reach out. You're worth it.

Crowley was frantic. Aziraphale had literally vanished in front of his eyes, denying Crowley's long-suppressed declaration of love. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. Thrusting his hands into his hair and tugging on it, he screamed. Aziraphale couldn't be gone. Crowley couldn't contemplate a world without him. His phone rang again, and he answered it with a snarl.

"Crowley, what's happened?" Anathema demanded. How she had known something had happened, he wasn’t sure, since he genuinely didn’t believe she was spying on them.

"I… I don't know…" Crowley's voice cracked. "He was here… and I… but he didn't… and then…"  _ I can’t do this. I can’t. He’s gone. I’ve lost him. Nononononono. _

"Crowley, I can't understand you, " Anathema said firmly. "What are you saying? Oh, God, you  _ told  _ him, didn't you?"

"He didn't believe me, " Crowley said. Everything felt surreal, distant. His throat felt tight; his head whirled sickeningly.

"Of course he didn't believe you!" Anathema snapped. "Would you, in his shoes?"

Shocked back to at least a semblance of rationality by her tone, he said, "Aren't you supposed to be sympathetic?"

"Don't be ridiculous, " she retorted. "Firstly, wallowing in maudlin feelings isn't going to get us anywhere. Secondly, you made this bed, and now you have to lie in it."

"Maudlin feelings!" Crowley cried outraged. "He's gone, Anathema!" He wanted to rage at her, hurt her even, take out all his grief and guilt on her. But instead, he found his breath coming quicker and shallower. Shaking and hyperventilating, he dropped the phone. He could hear Anathema's voice in the distance, but the words didn't make any sense.

"Breathe, Crowley. Just breathe with me." Anathema told him, her voice rendered tinny by the tiny phone speaker. She worked on calming him down for several minutes before adding, "He's still alive, I swear I would know if he… was not. And he's still on Earth. I think he's just hiding again."

Crowley snatched up the phone. "I thought he…," but he couldn't finish the thought.

"Not yet, " Anathema said ominously. 

_ Yet.  _ Crowley had to take a few more breaths before he could respond. He remembered what the witch had said. "Whaddaya mean I made this bed?"

"Why would Aziraphale believe you loved him?"  _ Dammit, there was that word again. _

"I said so, " he mumbled.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Aziraphale has known you for thousands of years. You're a liar and a manipulator, he knows that. You bully him, mock him, and belittle him. So, tell me again about how you love him?" Anathema's voice was chilly. 

"I was only joking," Crowley deflected. "We worked together to outfox Heaven and Hell. We were happy. He knows I'm not serious when I make fun of him."

"He does? I guess that's why you're standing alone in a bandstand in the rain." Now the witch was ice cold. She was mad.

"I'll fix it, " he promised. "But I can't fix it if I don't know where he is."

"Hmmm. I'll try and find him. But if I do, you had better not fuck it up again. Or you might wish Hell had plunged you into holy water after all."

* * *

Aziraphale sat on the edge of the world, a perfect viewpoint to see the panorama of the city of London, where he has lived for centuries. He loves this city, and he loves every one of the humans who live there. He can see them from here, scurrying here and there. The wind is quite strong, his jacket flaps, and his eyes sting.

There is a sound behind him. He doesn’t turn around; he knows who it is. Not their actual identity but what they are at least. Footsteps scrape on gravel, tentative and slow.

“Sir?” a voice says. Female, relatively young, strong, and confident but not unsympathetic. Still, he ignores her.

“My name is Sarah,” she said. “I want to help you.”

“You can’t,” Aziraphale said faintly. “I’m far beyond help.”

“Nobody is beyond help,” she says. “Can you tell me your name?”

“I’d rather not.”

“That’s OK. Do you know where you are?”

“Guy’s hospital. The big tower. I needed somewhere to think.” Aziraphale knows his time is running short. He’ll have to leave.

“That’s right. Do you know why I’m here?” Her voice had softened. She sounded sweet.

“You think I’m going to jump.” 

She continued to move closer, gentle, and cautious. “Is that what you want?”

“I’m not up here to throw myself off,” Aziraphale says sadly. “I’m perfectly safe.”

“Do you think you could step away from the edge? We can talk.”

He turns to look at her. She’s as young as he thought, with a braid of red hair that reminds him of Crowley. She holds out her hand, and, taking pity on her, he moves over to her.

“You’re very kind,” he says. He wishes he could bless her, but he no longer feels able. Who is he to bless anyone? Rejected by Heaven but without solace in Hell, and an outsider here on Earth. He has had precisely one companion throughout the long years of his existence, and now he doesn’t even have that.

“He lied to me,” he said to Sarah. He couldn’t quite fathom pouring his heart out to a total stranger, but in a way, it felt safe. She didn’t know Crowley, could never tell him what he said. “He told me he loves me, but I don’t believe him.”

“Why not?” she asked, one tentative hand on his arm.

“He’s not capable of it. I think he was trying to help. I’ve… not been well recently.” Sarah’s bright green eyes were soft. “I’ve lost who I am.”

“And if you don’t know who you are, you don’t have anything to give,” she said. Aziraphale’s eyes widened. 

“You understand,” he said in astonishment. She gave him a humorless smile. 

“I’ve been there.” She leaned against the door of the rooftop access. “Why do you think your friend lied? Why isn’t he capable of it?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” He thought she would disagree, but she just nodded. “It isn’t important. Even if it were true, I don’t deserve it.”

“Why not?”

“My… family. They’ve thrown me out for good. No going back. They want me dead.”

“Sometimes families are like that,” she said. “Sometimes, family are the ones who can hurt us the most.”

He was surprised she didn’t challenge him on the notion that his family literally wanted him to die. But then he thought about all the things humans could do to each other, often without the prompting of demons, and it made a sort of sense. But it wasn’t supposed to be like that in Heaven. Love was supposed to be the guiding principle. What kind of love demands your death?

* * *

Shadwell hadn’t seen the “Southern Pansy” as he called Aziraphale in his typical idiom. Crowley even tried calling Adam, but the boy couldn’t find the angel either. The more time that passed, the more frightened Crowley became. The angel was smart and resourceful when he wanted to be. He had to think more like Aziraphale. He managed a grim laugh. It was their differences that had drawn them together; he was darkness; Aziraphale was the light.   


A memory came to him of the day he’d met the angel. He’d never seen one look so guilty before, nor so unsure of himself. Learning that he’d given away his flaming sword to Eve had told him that despite his prissy manner, this was an angel willing to buck the rules to do what he thought was right, not just what he’d been ordered to do.

So Aziraphale had more imagination than most angels, and that meant he had the ability to think laterally. Instead of thinking of all the obvious places he would go, Crowley needed to figure out where the angel would think was the most unlikely place to go.

There were plenty of dens of iniquity around London, but lateral thinking or not, he couldn’t imagine Aziraphale tolerating them.  _ Think like Aziraphale. Where would he think I would think he wouldn’t go, but also somewhere that his sensibilities could cope with? _ It was making his head hurt.

* * *

Anathema performed another scrying, like the one she’d used last time, but Aziraphale had blocked her permanently it seemed. But it proved he was still alive, which was only a confirmation of her intuition, but it was nice to be sure. Thinking for a moment, she settled on the floor and slipped into a trance. Sometimes she did her best work that way.

Floating in the etheric world could be remarkably enlightening. She couldn’t see Aziraphale, but she could see him through the eyes of a woman talking with him on a tall building somewhere in London. Oh, this was bad. Aziraphale could get away from her easily if he wanted to, but she wasn’t sure he had the will. If he ended up in the hospital, this could become a real problem.

She breathed deeply and returned to her body. Picking up the phone, she called the demon straightaway. He answered tersely, and she described what she had seen.

“Shit,” Crowley said. “I’ll get to him and call you back.” And then he hung up.

“You’re welcome,” she snapped at the phone. Ungrateful supernatural entities were the worst.

* * *

It was time to leave. Sarah was on the verge of convincing him to go with her to a mental health facility, and that was not a safe place for him to go. Safe for the humans there, he meant.

He looked at her. “You’re very kind. But I can’t go with you.”

“I can’t leave you here either,” she told him. “You know that.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. Sarah was right; he couldn’t stay. He no longer wanted to stay. Flinging himself from the rooftop was no solution, he’d be discorporated, not killed. Stabbing needles of ice stabbed into his brain. Heaven wanted him dead. Maybe they’d be glad to have another go at it. Hellfire wasn’t the only way to destroy an angel, just the most painful and ostentatious.

But he didn’t want them to have the satisfaction. He wanted… He wanted to sleep.

* * *

By the time Crowley reached the hospital tower, Aziraphale was gone. Again. For a being who claimed to prefer to go slowly, he was moving very fast today. Where the Hell had he gone now? That thought made him pause.  _ Could Aziraphale have found some way to hide out in Heaven or Hell? _ But Anathema had said he was still on Earth. Crowley felt like he was getting nowhere. Perhaps a quick visit home would bring inspiration, or failing that, decent scotch. 

As soon as he approached the door of his fancy apartment, he knew the wards had been breached. He hoped the intruder was someone whose face he could smash in. Hastur, perhaps. He opened the door carefully, making sure he wasn’t caught out by any booby traps. Demons might not be all that imaginative, but they never forgot a trick.

The plants were restive; he could hear them rustling as he entered the living room. And then he caught it, the slight scent of Hell. Not Hellfire, but something close.  _ Nerá tis kólasis.  _ An infernal distilled drink made from the souls of the damned. Ghastly stuff, it tasted like gasoline and rotting flesh. Crowley only kept a bottle for unpleasant Hadean visitors who hadn’t spent enough time topside to know better. But it was safely sealed and warded, hidden away in a secret cabinet in his bedroom.

He froze.  _ Would Aziraphale come here? _ It didn’t make much sense if the angel didn’t want to be found… Eyes wide, he dashed across the vast open space of the apartment and threw open the bedroom door. The stench of the  _ Nerá tis kólasis  _ was almost overwhelming. He had to take a step back and cough. There on the floor was the bottle, it’s hideous grey-green-brown contents staining his white polar bearskin rug. And beside it, Aziraphale, wrapped in his wings which were also stained by the revolting fluid. 

_ Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!  _ If Aziraphale had so much as drank one mouthful of that stuff… Well, he had no idea what it would do to angels since none of them had been stupid enough to try it. Grimacing, he knelt down and turned Aziraphale’s body towards him. The angel’s eyes were open but unblinking and empty. Thick black foam trailed from his nose, from his mouth, and down his chin. Crowley was pretty sure he’d had a seizure. He’d poisoned himself with the one thing he had any reason to believe would hurt him. 

Crowley would leave the problem of how Aziraphale even knew where to find his stash to another time. Right now, he had to figure out some kind of angelic first aid when he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do. He couldn’t heal this kind of damage, Aziraphale’s angelic nature would reject it.

His phone rang, and he tossed it across the room angrily. But somehow, by doing that, he’d accepted the call.

“Crowley!” he heard Anathema’s voice faintly. He summoned the phone back to his hand, unwilling to move away from Aziraphale.  _ Goddamn witches and their clairvoyance. _

“M’busy,” he growled and went to hang up.

“Wait!” Anathema said urgently. “Aziraphale’s hurt, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he drank… well, let’s just call a hellish brew that’s poison for angels.” In an anguished voice, he described the scene to Anathema, the occasional tear seeking to escape down his cheek.

“OK. I don’t know anything about ‘hellish brews,’ but I do know something about poison. Is he conscious?”

“No. His eyes are open, but he’s unresponsive.”

“Pulse, heart rate?”

“No, but since he doesn’t need to breathe or have a heartbeat, that doesn’t mean much.” Crowley was snarling at this point, desperate for the witch to come up with anything useful.

“OK, OK. Look, you need to figure out how much he actually drank that he didn’t immediately vomit back up.” He heard Anathema take a shuddering breath and realized she was as agitated as he was.

“I dunno, it can’t have been much, accounting for how much is on the floor.”

“Let’s wash out his mouth and rinse any vomit from his skin,” Anathema decided. “Once that’s done, can you bring him here? I can do much more if I can actually touch him.”

Crowley abandoned his cell and picked Aziraphale up, staggering a little on the way to the bathroom. He stripped the angel of all his clothes and incinerated them with a glance. He couldn’t risk even the slightest trace left. He’d deal with the mess in the bedroom later. One look around told him he’d either have to strip himself or get his clothes wet. He opted for getting wet. 

The bathroom had a large walk-in shower, easily large enough for two people, although nobody but Crowley had ever been in there. He laid Aziraphale gently on the tile floor in something resembling the recovery position his head to the side. Since the angel couldn’t actually drown, he decided to risk pointing the extensible showerhead into his mouth. The angle of his head would hopefully prevent any remaining  _ Nerá tis kólasis _ going down his throat but instead wash it all out onto the floor. 

Aziraphale choked as Crowley swamped him with water, and his eyelids fluttered before settling closed. Crowley felt like throwing up himself; he was relieved the angel wasn’t dead but afraid that neither was he out of danger. He washed all the spilled liquor from Aziraphale’s wings, plucking a few feathers he couldn’t guarantee weren’t permanently saturated.

Once he was satisfied, he dried the angel carefully and frowned. None of his clothes would fit Aziraphale’s shorter, stouter frame. In the end, he settled on calling up a loose set of pajamas in his angel’s favorite tartan. Cradling Aziraphale in his arms, he summoned his cell and told Anathema he was on his way.

* * *

The angel was in worse shape than she’d hoped. One look at his sheet-white face and limp body along with the black-stained aura did not make her confident she could save him. Nevertheless, she had to try. While Crowley had set a new land speed record in the Bentley, she’d called a few friends in the witchcraft community for advice.

She ground together dried mandrake and raspberry leaf with a few whispered words of power. When she heard the screech of the car’s wheels outside her door, she turned on the kettle. Newt answered the door and hung back nervously as Crowley kicked the door wide and strode into the living room, Aziraphale in his arms. 

“On the couch. Newt, go get a bucket,” she ordered and then mixed her concoction with boiling water. She brought the tisane to Crowley. “Let it cool a little, then pour it down his throat. He’ll probably throw up again.”

Crowley eyed her nervously. “I’m not sure it’s safe for you two to be here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Anathema stated, planting her feet. Crowley glared at her. “You need my help. I love him as much as you do. Let me work.”

Grumbling, Crowley snatched the proffered bucket from Newt’s hands and placed it near Aziraphale’s head. He dipped a pinky into the tea, cooling it to a drinkable temperature and brought it to the angel’s mouth. Since he was still out cold, he could only pinch the angel’s nose and tilt his head back, pouring the entire concoction down his throat.

For a few moments, nothing happened. Anathema had just begun to run down the last resort options her mother had suggested when Aziraphale spasmed, arching his back off the couch and then collapsed down onto it, choking. Crowley gently directed his head to the bucket as the angel emptied what was left in his stomach.

Anathema wanted to empty hers too. The smell of the disgusting demon drink was overwhelming even though the amount of vomit was not large. The angel’s choking subsided, and his eyes fluttered. She got up to make more tea, this time with the raspberry leaf and some arrowroot.

“Mmflee?” he said indistinctly.

“I’m here,” Crowley said softly. He accepted the cup from Anathema and kneeled, holding it to Aziraphale’s lips. The angel sipped tentatively, pausing now and again to wince. Once the tea was gone, Crowley discarded the cup onto the floor, to Anathema’s annoyance, and he stroked the angel’s face.

“Why?” he said in a broken voice. Anathema shoved Newt out of the room and closed the door behind them.

* * *

“I’m tired,” Aziraphale said. His voice sounded rusty and somehow like the echo of every one of his six thousand years on Earth.

“I know,” Crowley told him. “I know, angel. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “It seemed like… an answer.”

“To what?”

“To everything. It…  _ hurts.  _ Every day. Until I didn’t know how to stand it anymore. And then, it stopped.”

Puzzled, Crowley sat down by the couch and tossed his sunglasses onto the table. He took the angel’s hand.

“What do you mean, 'it stopped'?”

“The color, it just… drained away. Everything seemed gray and flat and cold. My connection to Heaven isn’t just dead; it’s… gone. As if it never existed. I still have my power, but I’m not sure if it’s weaker too. I’ve been too afraid to try it.” He turned his head away. “I don’t know who I am or what I am anymore. And I’m not sure I care. Perhaps I’m Falling, or have Fallen, or will Fall soon. I don’t care.”

He turned his head back, his face was suddenly angry. “I hate you.”

Startled, Crowley jerked back. He had a retort just behind his teeth.

“Why would you not let me go?”

* * *

At the sound of breaking china, Anathema burst back into the room. The remains of a cup lay against a wall. Crowley was standing by the fireplace, examining a wood carving of a turtle as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

“What’s going on?”

Crowley whirled around and fixed her with a glare so vicious most people would have fled. But Anathema had looked Lucifer straight in the eye and was unmoved. Aziraphale had retreated under his wings, a quivering ball of feathers on the couch. 

“He wants to know why I saved his life,” Crowley said thinly. “He’s angry with me for doing it.”

“And you’re angry at him for trying and for not understanding why you couldn’t let him leave you.” Crowley looked away. 

Anathema inhaled and exhaled to calm her own temper. “Crowley, go with Newt to the pub. Don’t come back here drunk.”

“I don’t want--”

“I don’t care what you want. Go.”

* * *

Anathema glared at the sheepish looking angel on her couch. They’d been talking for hours. "Well?"

"I don't know what to say, " he admitted.

"You two really are a pair, " she sighed. "And why I am letting myself be drawn into your bullshit, I have no idea."

Aziraphale looked down at the carpet guiltily. "I'm sorry. Crowley shouldn't have brought me here."

"I'm glad he did, " Anathema said in a kinder tone of voice. "You scared me pretty good today."

"I scared myself, " Aziraphale confessed. "These thoughts, I don't know where they come from. They sound like me, but…"

"Let me tell you something, " Anathema said soothingly as she poured more tea into his cup. "Depression lies to you."

"Depression!" Aziraphale exclaimed, shocked.

"Yes, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn you have PTSD too." She took one of his hands. "Newt's been seeing a therapist. I've been getting informal counseling from another witch." 

"Angels don't get PTSD, " Aziraphale told her.

"Says who?" She challenged.

"Well, I mean, that is to say…" he floundered, and she let him do so for several seconds before smiling at him. "I suppose I just assumed it was a human thing."

She nodded. "You have to tell Crowley what’s going on with you.  _ Talk  _ to him, for goodness sake. Without the melodrama."

A shadow passed over his face. "You're right. We do need to talk."

Satisfied, Anathema stood up. "Good. Talk, kiss and makeup and then fuck like bunnies." At Aziraphale's horrified expression, she laughed and then gave him a knowing look. "Trust me."

* * *

Against Anathema’s specific instructions, Crowley was drunk. Falling over, incoherent, angry drunk. Newt cowered as they walked back to the cottage. 

“Fuckin’ an… agels…” the demon mumbled. “Fuck Azza… Azza… y’know.”

“Anathema’s going to kill me,” Newt said unhappily. Crowley blinked at him, and for the first time, Newt realized he didn’t do that very much. Of course, normally, the demon’s eyes were hidden behind his shades. 

“Bah,” Crowley said.

Sure enough, Anathema was there at the door, her mouth pursed in disapproval. Crowley burped.

“You were supposed to stop him drinking too much,” she snapped at Newt.

“He’s a  _ demon!”  _ Newt retorted. “How am I supposed to stop him doing anything?” He moved to enter the house and was stopped by Anathema’s hand on his chest. 

“Sober up. Now.” Newt looked confused. Crowley grumbled but flushed the alcohol out of both of their systems. Newt thought he was going to be sick.

“All right. Come on, Aziraphale’s waiting for you.”

* * *

Crowley was sprawled across the couch, but for once, Aziraphale was not perched stiffly on the end but tucked under the demon’s arm. 

“What do we do now?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley looked down at him. “That’s up to you.”

“Anathema thinks I have PTSD. And that I’m depressed.”

“No shit,” Crowley replied. 

“Humans go see counselors. And… doctors. I can’t do that.” Aziraphale shifted slightly, his face dark.

“We’ll figure something out,” Crowley assured him. 

“You never answered my question,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Which question?”

“Why wouldn’t you let me go?”

Crowley swallowed and hugged the angel a little tighter. “I did answer you. I l-l-love you.” 

“I wish I knew why.”

“So do I,” Crowley said wryly. When Aziraphale flinched, he added, “I don’t mean like that. I mean, why would a demon fall in love at all, much less with an angel? It doesn’t make any sense if you think about it.”

“You’re not like most demons,” Aziraphale noted. “In fact, sometimes you’re more like a badly behaved angel.”

Crowley suppressed the automatic reaction to being called nice or sweet or angelic and forced himself to laugh instead. He dipped his head to touch his lips to Aziraphale’s. The angel’s mouth opened to gasp, and Crowley claimed it, letting everything pour out. Overwhelmed, Aziraphale pulled back.

“S’okay,” Crowley mumbled in chagrin. He stroked the angel’s hair. “You once said I go too fast for you. Well, you’re in the driver’s seat now.”

“Only trouble is,” Aziraphale said drily, “I don’t know how to drive.”

Crowley blinked, and then a slow grin spread across his face. “I’ll teach you.”

* * *

“Newt, it’s rude to listen at doors,” Anathema said, mock-scolded.

“You did it earlier,” he pointed out mildly. 

“That was different.”

He rolled his eyes. “Is he going to be OK?”

“I don’t know,” Anathema admitted. “Crowley’s pretty strong-willed, so he’ll fight on Aziraphale’s behalf. But ultimately, Aziraphale is the one who has to accept the help.” She shook her head. “And they can’t use any of the resources we can, like therapists or doctors.”

“But we can help, can’t we?”

She smiled at him fondly. “Of course.”

* * *

It was late. The Bentley sped down the road, unhindered by traffic and speed limits alike. Aziraphale had his head against the window, watching the lights dance by and listening to the roar of the engine.

“Penny,” Crowley said with his usual eloquence.

Aziraphale gave him a weak smile but said nothing. Crowley glanced at him.

“I’m selling the bookshop.”

Now Crowley’s attention was fully engaged on the angel. “No! Why?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I thought it was time.”

“What would you do instead?” Crowley was concerned. Aziraphale  _ loved _ that bookshop, or collection of books masquerading as a shop, anyway. 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said distantly. “Maybe go traveling. I’ve been in England too long.”

“You don’t have to sell up to do that,” Crowley objected. 

“Who would look after it while I was gone?” The angel shook his head. “No, I’ve made up my mind.”

“I could look after it for you,” Crowley offered. There was a flash of pain across the angel’s face he couldn’t interpret. “Look, I don’t think this is a good time to be making major decisions.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.” There was no bite to the words. Crowley gave up entirely on driving the car; it could handle things on its own. 

“Aziraphale--”

The angel held up one hand. “No.”

“C’mon. Talk to me. What’s this really about?”

Aziraphale turned his head away, unable to stop the tears from falling. Crowley was entirely at sea. “There’s no joy for me in it anymore.”

“I know it feels that way,” Crowley said, remembering something Anathema had told him. “But give it some time. Once you do this, you can’t go back.”

“I can’t go back there,” the angel wept.

“That’s OK. We can go to mi-- shit. No, we can’t. Let’s go to a hotel. I’m sure the Ritz will have a sudden cancellation.”

Aziraphale nodded. “OK.”

* * *

Crowley crept out of the hotel room and headed down the hall to the stairwell. “I don’t fucking care, Viggo. I gotta have the place cleaned out, and I can’t use humans.” He listened to his demon-adjacent acquaintance complain for a few more minutes. “Yes, I know you have to-- Look, I’ll pay you double, OK? OK, then.”

He’d probably sell up. Aziraphale talking about selling the bookshop had put the idea in his head. He wasn’t sure he could ever set foot in there again. He could live at the Ritz. Why not?  _ Or… _ He blocked that line of thought before it could form.

When he returned to the room, Aziraphale was awake, blinking bleary eyes at him. “Where did you go?”

“Just had to make a call,” the demon told him. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“OK,” Aziraphale lay there, sprawled among the sheets. He frowned slightly at the way they were arranged. “Did you… sleep last night?” Crowley knew what he was really asking.

“Not really,” he said casually, watching Aziraphale’s face closely. “Might’ve napped in the armchair a bit.”

Aziraphale looked uncertain. “Did you… do that for me?”

“Didn’t think I should crowd you,” Crowley admitted. “Did I do the right thing?”

“Maybe.”

“Breakfast?” 

Aziraphale flinched. “M’not hungry.” He snuggled down further into the bed. “M’stay here.”

“Nope,” Crowley said. Anathema had advised him not to let Aziraphale wallow in bed if he could help it. “We’re going to feed the ducks.”

“We are?”

‘Yep. Here, put these on.” Crowley tossed a set of clothes onto the bed. He’d retrieved them from the bookshop last night. 

Aziraphale just looked at them. “This is my second best jacket.” He looked up at Crowley, his eyes remote. “I want--” He broke off. “It’s gone, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, angel. I had to burn it.” Aziraphale nodded, slowly absorbing the information.

“So. Ducks?”

Aziraphale clambered out of bed, every movement sluggish. Crowley decided he absolutely had to go to the bathroom and do something with his hair while the angel dressed.

“We haven’t got any bread,” Aziraphale said, sounding defeated.

“We’ll have to go get breakfast then,” Crowley said with a brightness he didn’t feel. “We can feed the crumbs to the ducks.”

Aziraphale nodded dumbly and let himself be shepherded out of the hotel. 

* * *

As plans went, this one sucked. Aziraphale had shown little interest in the ducks, and they could tell, quacking at him in dissatisfaction. A robin flew down to snatch the last morsel from Crowley’s hand, and Aziraphale watched it fly off.

“There are holes in my wings.”

“I know. I had to pull out the damaged ones. They’ll grow back.” Crowley had known this conversation was coming but had dreaded it.

“They’ll be black.”

“ _ No _ ,” Crowley insisted. “You’re not Falling. Anathema was quite certain.”

“I know you’re selling the apartment,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley gaped at him. “How the Hell do you know that?”

Aziraphale smiled. “At least you didn’t lie about it. I didn’t know, I guessed. Where are you going?”

Crowley inhaled slowly. “Anywhere you are.”

Aziraphale looked vaguely surprised. “Are you planning to move in with me?”

“D’ya want me to?” He was trying his absolute best to be casual and relaxed. If his muscles tightened any more, they’d strangle him.

Aziraphale didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, he said, “Is this a trick?”

“What kind of trick?” Crowley replied baffled.

“If you move in, you think I won’t sell up.” Aziraphale shook his head. “It won’t work.”

“You’d cast me out on the streets?”

“So, you are planning to move in.” Aziraphale seemed to be in control of this conversation. Crowley had no idea how that had happened.

“Yeah, well, I mean, if you don’t mind,” he stammered. “I mean if y’want me to.”

“What if I said no?” Hell’s bells, the angel was being contrary today.

“Are you serious? Aziraphale, I can’t keep up.” The irony of that was not lost on him.

Aziraphale shrugged. It was a stiff, unnatural movement. One of the ducks waddled up to him and gave him a beady-eyed look. “Fuck you,” the angel told it.

The ducks all glared. Even Crowley was shocked. “What the Hell?”

Aziraphale sighed and stood up. “I want to go home… to the hotel, I mean.”

“Can’t,” Crowley said, taking a risk. “They’re all full tonight.” He held the angel’s gaze and saw the light of challenge spark there. 

“We can--” 

“Nope,” Crowley said. “We’re staying at the shop tonight.” Aziraphale started to cry.

* * *

To Crowley’s surprise, once Aziraphale was back inside the bookshop, his entire demeanor changed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, running his hands along dusty shelves. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

He ambled around the store for at least an hour, touching shelves and books and knickknacks, muttering to them all. Crowley, with a tremendous amount of effort, stayed still, and just watched.

He seemed more relaxed, the demon realized. This had been a better idea than the duck pond. Suddenly, Aziraphale was standing in front of him, a worried look on his face.

“Where are we going to put all the plants?”

Nonplussed, Crowley said, “What plants?”

“Your plants, dear boy. You said you were moving in.” Aziraphale fussed with a button on his coat, not looking Crowley in the eye. Or sunglasses lens, whatever.

“So you’re OK with that?” he asked tentatively.

“Of course, dearest,” Aziraphale said, smiling as though he’d never done it before.

Crowley sensed something was off. “No pressure. I can make other arrangements if you’re not ready--”

An armful of angel was definitely not how he was expecting that conversation to end. Aziraphale was suddenly clutching him, face pressed against Crowley’s shirt. His shoulders were shaking.

“Angel?” All he got was muffled sounds. But he could feel his shirt getting wet.

Aziraphale turned his head slightly. “If you move in, you can’t leave. You can’t get bored of me in a century or so and bugger off.”

“I wouldn’t,” Crowley said indignantly.

“Make me believe it.”

The demon had no idea what that meant. How was he supposed to do that? An insistent hand, guiding his head towards the angel gave him a clue. He kissed Aziraphale softly at first and then with more enthusiasm when Aziraphale opened up to him.

After a few moments, he raised his head. He felt breathless, which was stupid.  _ You don’t need to breathe, remember? _

“I don’t actually own a bed,” Aziraphale said, a dusting of pink across his cheeks.

“Where do you sleep?”

“Don’t bother much. And the couch is comfy enough if I want a nap.”

“We’re getting a bed. A big one.” Crowley looked around. “Where we would put it…”   
  
“The shop will accommodate,” Aziraphale assured him. “Until then…”

Crowley smiled at him. “I can work with a couch.” He guided the two of them down onto the old leather and wrapped himself around Aziraphale, gently carding his fingers through his hair until his breathing slowed, and they drifted asleep together.

* * *

Aziraphale was still asleep, his breathing soft and regular. Crowley had sat up, pillowing the angel’s head on his lap. He traced Aziraphale’s brows with a gentle finger then pulled away when his face began to frown.

“No,” he muttered.

Crowley wondered if he’d upset the angel.

“No, please.” His voice was muffled. Crowley realized he was dreaming. He never dreamt when sleeping, but apparently, Aziraphale did.

“Gabriel, you can’t!” Aziraphale rocketed upwards and toppled off the couch with a yelp.

“Nightmare?” Crowley asked, trying not to sound too worried.

Aziraphale looked puzzled. “I don’t know.”

Crowley never knew when Aziraphale was lying. He did it so infrequently that the demon had never worked out his tells. Aziraphale had had his number for years, but that was because he lied most of the time.

“Have you had nightmares since…?” Crowley waved a hand vaguely.

“No, I mean. Maybe. Yes.” Good answer. Covered all bases.

Crowley was not to be deterred. “Anathema mentioned she thought you had PTSD.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped. “They were willing to kill me, Crowley. I served them faithfully, and they were going to throw me away like rubbish.” Crowley knew better than to respond. 

“They think I’m worthless.”

Crowley was gnawing at the inside of his cheeks, trying to suppress the urge to reassure Aziraphale. He’d spent most of the night researching online. Several websites had suggested that it might be useful to let Aziraphale get it all out in the open.

“So, that’s a good thing, right?” The question seemed to be rhetorical. “I don’t want them bossing me around anymore. Freedom, right?”

It was too much; he couldn’t hold back. “Yeah,” Crowley agreed.

One tear rolled down Aziraphale’s cheek. “So, if they think I’m crap and I feel the same about them, why do I still care about what they think?”

“It’s not that simple,” Crowley said, hoping he’d understood this correctly. “Think about humans for a minute. How many people have abusive parents, and yet they still love them? You can still love Heaven and hate them for what they did if you want.”

Aziraphale was silent, contemplative. Crowley waited him out.

“Yes,” he said finally. “It’s exactly like that.”

It felt like a breakthrough. “Don’t ever think you’re worthless,” Crowley whispered, pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s head. “You’re the best thing that ever came out of there, and I’ll damn anyone who says otherwise to a lifetime of listening to Elgar 24/7.” He realized Aziraphale was laughing.

“You’re evil,” the angel giggled, the most beautiful sound Crowley had ever heard. 

“Never pretended to be anything else,” he grinned. 

* * *

They had a long road ahead of them. Crowley was under no illusions that everything was alright again. Anathema had said that the only way through was to love Aziraphale, support him and watch over him. The witch who did Anathema’s counseling, after some astonishment that angels actually existed, had agreed to work with Aziraphale on his problems. 

“You have to have hope,” Anathema had told him. “You have to have hope for both of you. You can do this.”

He  _ had  _ to do it because he couldn’t imagine life without the angel. But that was OK because he wanted to do it. And he thought Aziraphale wanted that too.


End file.
